


Resident Evil: Reimagined

by ResidentBabe



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2018-12-31 21:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12141030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ResidentBabe/pseuds/ResidentBabe
Summary: A set of linear sub stories that will explore the characters of Resident Evil as time goes on, eventually leading into a larger plot. First chapter takes place in 1998, before the mansion incident, and the rest will go from there.





	1. Chapter 1

“Cap’n,” Chris spoke, alerting the man who was writing furiously at his desk to his presence. 

Albert Wesker’s hand paused. Chris straightened his upper body at full attention, expecting his captain to look up at him with his sunglass masked gaze and usual countenance of mild annoyance. 

The scratchy drum of pen upon paper began again and continued for another uncomfortable half minute or so. Chris shifted in his spot. Did...did he not hear him? His mouth fell slightly agape, his next words never forming as Wesker set down his pen and looked up at him with an unreadable expression. 

“Redfield, to what do I owe the pleasure so late into the evening?” Wesker folded his hands in front of him, his chin resting on his knuckles as he gave Chris a look of consideration. In the dim light of Wesker’s office, Chris didn’t notice at first, but his familiar sunglasses were absent. In their place was a pair of thin framed reading glasses perching at the end of his nose, revealing a strained set of steel blue eyes. Chris briefly wondered why he didn’t keep more lights on.

“Uh, there’s a man in the front looking for you,” Chris said, thrown off by Wesker’s almost relaxed composure. 

“And does this man happen to have a name?” Wesker asked, an eyebrow perking. The unsaid question being ‘why should he care?’

“A William Birkin, sir.” That caught his attention. Wesker’s hands immediately unclasped. Within one dexterous movement, the reading glasses were off and replaced with his usual sunglasses. He stood attentively, and without another word, walked passed Chris and out the door. 

Chris watched Wesker’s receding back, leaving him in his office. Chris looked around momentarily, then to Wesker’s desk. His reading glasses glinted in the lamplight where they had been set neatly upon the stack of haphazardly placed papers he had been scribing on just a moment before. Chris was curious, but turned his eyes away, an eerie feeling washing over him. It felt wrong to be in the captain’s office alone. Merely standing in his personal space more than a moment necessary felt like an invasion of privacy. And Albert Wesker was a considerably private man. 

“Guess it must be someone important,” Chris wondered to no one in particular. He left the room promptly, shutting the door behind him and following the captain. 

*    *    *

“I’m a very important and dignified scientist!” Birkin flailed, his glasses almost tumbling off his face in an undignified manner. 

“Listen here, I don’t care if you’re President Bill Clinton, you can’t just waltz your quacky ass in here and demand to see the boss,” Barry ground out. It’d only been five minutes and he had had enough of this pretentious quack.

“A-a quack!?” Birkin stuttered, “I’ll have you know, my work is at the forefront of virological research!”

“Alright okay, pal,” Barry nodded slowly, narrowing his eyes, “I think it’s time for you to go. Can someone get this loon out of here before I do it myself?!”

“That won’t be necessary, Burton,” Wesker said, walking into the room, “Unfortunately, that would be my loon.”

“Al!” Birkin shouted, hopping over the desk like an overtly exuberant madman. 

“Hey, you can’t just-” Barry began, grabbing for the man’s collar. Wesker stuck out a hand lazily, palm up towards Barry, signaling him to let the man be. Barry immediately halted, trained to follow the captain’s every order. 

Everyone in the S.T.A.R.S department front office watched in abject horror as the disheveled man ran towards the captain, almost tripping over his dingy lab coat in the process. Wesker grunted as the man made contact and threw his arms around him. Wesker swore he heard one or two people gasp. 

“Man, is it good to see you, Al!” Birkin said sincerely, patting Wesker roughly on the back. Wesker stood rigidly with his hands still folded behind behind him, letting the hug run it’s course. In the meantime, the room had gone still, watching the scene play out before them. Jill’s pen rolled off her desk, falling to the floor with a few loud clacks in the now silent room. She did not go to pick it up.

Birkin finally released Wesker from a full embrace and clasped him by the shoulders at arm's length. Birkin was only half a foot smaller than Wesker, but compared to Wesker’s all encompassing presence, he looked a tad too crushable for comfort. 

As Birkin gave him a crooked grin, Wesker slowly looked down at him, unhooking his hands from behind his back and reaching towards him. This was it, half the room thought simultaneously. This is where they were going to witness Captain Wesker commit homicide. They all expected it eventually, honestly.

“William,” Wesker began tiredly, grabbing on lightly to his lab coat and eyeing a conspicuous stain on the pocket with muted disgust. “why are you wearing this old thing?” 

Birkin fully released Wesker. He pursed his lips and looked down at his wardrobe, seeming to just now notice it’s atrocious state. He looked back up with an expression of embarrassment. His hand reached up to the nape of his neck as he nervously strung his hand through his shaggy, dusty blonde hair. 

“Come on, man. You know it’s become a comfort object at this point,” Birkin laughed, the statement coming out less as an ironic joke and more like a sad truth. 

“Right.” Wesker resisted the urge to sigh. He couldn't even begin to wonder how old that thing was, and, frankly, he didn’t want to. 

Wesker looked around the room, taking in the sight of everyone staring at the two of them in confusion, curiosity, and an appropriate amount of shock. This time, Wesker did sigh. He was absolutely fucking exhausted and this was the last thing he expected tonight. Hell, this was the last person he expected, as well. There was a pregnant pause as Wesker soaked in a moment where he could be in a room full of his subordinates and not hear their constant chittering. 

“Hey, uh, I kinda gotta talk to you If you’re finished up doing that whole menacing silence thing,  Al,” Birkin interrupted his thoughts. Moment gone, Wesker thought. 

“Right,” Wesker said again, “Office,” he commanded simply. 

“Office,” Birkin repeated, looking around at the couple of closed doors within the room, “Where is the office-oh, probably the one that has the big sign with your name-oh, and you're already going, alright noted. Following along,” Birkin rambled, having to quicken his pace to fall in step with Wesker’s long strides as they both went into his office. 

As the door closed, Birkin’s next nonsensical words were cut off, and the team was left without even a hint of an explanation as to what just happened. Jill slowly retrieved her pen from the ground, looking around to anyone who could supply an answer. 

“God damn, I think I just near shit my pants,” Barry said, gracefully cutting the silence, “Anyone ever see the boss act that nice towards anyone?” 

“If that’s what you call nice,” Jill answered, looking just as flabbergasted as him. 

“Nice for Wesker, Jill,” Barry insisted. 

“Alright, you have a point,” Jill replied. 

“I think tolerating would be the word you guys are looking for,” Chris said, adding his two cents into the matter. The few in the room nodded in agreement.

“Just who let that guy up here, anyway?” Chris asked, tearing his eyes away from the captain’s door. 

“Probably one of those idiots from down stairs. The rollers are always happy to send trouble our way,” Barry grumbled

“Well, if the captain knows him, how much trouble can he be?” Jill rationalized. 

Barry let out a small gruff, unconvinced. From the little time he spent speaking with the guy, the answer he came to was too much than he was worth. Barry hated pretentious people like that, and when it came to Barry, it was near impossible to get back on his good side once you’ve seriously ticked him off.


	2. Chapter 2: Well, That's Unfortunate

**May 11th, 1998**

 

Upon shutting the door, Birkin whistled.

 

“Huh, so this is the cave you’ve been dwelling in,” Birken muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets and eyeing the room with consideration.

Wesker sat down at his desk, tossing his glasses to the side and rubbing his tired eyes. He watched as Birkin began wandering around aimlessly, squinting at things in the dark.

 

“You keep it so ominous in here.” Birkin proceeded to pick up a picture on the shelf, giving it a half-interested once over, “Gasp, are you secretly Batman, Al?!” Birkin put a hand up to his mouth and feigned surprise, promptly forgetting the picture as it slipped from his careless hands.

The clash of glass meeting hardwood resonated sharply within the room.

 

Birkin’s eyes furrowed in suspicion as he looked down to the floor a good couple seconds after the picture’s landing. He looked up to Wesker as if for confirmation that there was indeed a shattered object on the floor that wasn’t there a moment before. When met with a glare and a bulging forehead vein, Birkin decided that the picture’s demise may have been his fault.

 

“Will,” Wesker ground out. It was hardly a shout. Rather, it was a tone of warning that Birkin was all too familiar with.

 

“Uh, I could fix that,” Birkin said, sliding awkwardly into the chair in front of the desk, “Just give me some scotch tape and like seven minut-”

 

“Why are you here?” Wesker interrupted what was to inevitably be another insufferable montage of rambling.

 

“Well, first off, rude.” Birkin pursed his lips at Wesker’s sour attitude, “No how are the wife and daughter, Will? How’s life in general? Has the force really made you so impolite?” Birkin gave Wesker a look of judgment, hoping to inflict some shame into the heartless man.

 

“How are the wife and daughter, Will?” Wesker mimicked sarcastically, wondering which of the paperweights on his desk could be best used as a bludger if the evening was to go on like this.

 

“Oh, well Sherry has recently taken up piano lessons, actually. I believe she’d been inspired by you showing off at the Christmas party, ” Birkin said pleasantly, “she misses her uncle Albert terribly, you know.” Birkin watched as Wesker’s face softened a bit in response.

 

“Is that so?” Wesker asked. He suddenly felt a rise of guilt, realizing he had not seen the young girl, or any of the Birkins for that matter, since the holidays. Time seemed to be going so quickly. It was already May.

 

“Mmhm.” Birkin folded his hands in front of him, his expression taking on a look of mild sincerity for once. “She hardly goes a day without mentioning you and asking when you’ll visit next.”

 

“And what do you say to her?”

 

“You’re busy, of course,” Birkin replied, “Doing important things and such. Which is true, I assume.”

 

Wesker nodded his head slowly, pointedly ignoring Birkin’s mild prodding with his last statement.

 

“And Annette?” Wesker inquired. He did not miss the corner of Birkin’s mouth twitch downwards at the mention of his wife.

 

“Annette is…” Birkin’s jaw tensed as he struggled to find the correct words to mimic his jumbled thoughts. “Annette is Annette. Especially more often than usual as of late.”

 

“Ah, so reasonable and simultaneously a fretting mess,” Wesker stated more than asked.

 

“Bingo,” Birkin replied.

 

“She’s not wrong about most things, you know,” Wesker said. Birkin nodded absentmindedly, becoming less interested in conversation and increasingly more fixated on the coffee pot to the side of Wesker’s desk.

 

“You should listen to your wife more often,” Wesker told him, taking note of Birkin’s sudden shift in focus.

 

“That’s not your place to say, Al.” Within a moment, Birkin was making direct eye contact with him, all humor having suddenly dissipated from his face. Wesker slowly stuck his hands up for a moment as a sign of truce. Perhaps Birkin was right. There was no foreseeable point in getting into it at this very moment.

 

“Coffee?” Wesker offered, gesturing towards the pot Birkin had been eyeing a moment before. Birkin’s expression immediately perked up.

 

“YES,” Birkin said, the tense moment passing without a second thought.

 

Birkin watched with hungry eyes as Wesker grabbed a clean mug off one of the shelves and poured the coffee for him. Whether this was out of kindness or Wesker’s unwillingness to let him touch another breakable item in his office was most certainly not a mystery. Birkin could feel the irritation seep off of his standoffish friend, but he hardly paid it any mind. Wesker was almost always in a perpetual state of manly angst.

Birkin outstretched both of his hands like a starving child as Wesker brought the mug towards him.

 

“Hold on, aren’t you on beta blockers?” Wesker questioned, pulling the mug back and looking at the madman incredulously. Birkin frowned.

 

“Oh yes, several,” Birkin said simply, snatching the mug out of Wesker’s hand before he had a moment to protest. Wesker watched in mild disgust as Birkin swallowed the scalding liquid, a dribble of it escaping his lips and traveling through his overgrown stubble to fall upon the increasingly soiled lab coat.  

 

Wesker observed Birkin. Having worked alongside the man since he was seventeen, he was quite used to his eccentric nature, but something seemed especially off. His eyes were constantly shifting and his inability to stay still was disconcerting, to say the least.

 

“I know I’m pretty, Al, but you don’t have to stare,” Birkin winked at him, breaking him away from his thoughts.

 

“Hardly,” Wesker tsked. Wesker folded his arms in front of him and leaned back in his chair. For a moment, Birkin swore he could see a hint of a smirk forming in the dim light.

 

“Salty, salty,” Birkin chided, chuckling at the stupidity. Wesker snorted at that.

 

“Well, of course I am. I’ve been held up in this Hell hole for far too long.”

 

“Oh, come now. Your colleagues don’t seem that bad,” Birkin replied, “Save the abrasive bear you have at the front.”

 

“They’re completely insufferable,” Wesker decided.

 

“You’re the one who decided to switch to the Intelligence Bureau,” Birkin reminded him, taking another sip.

 

“I have my reasons,” Wesker said, trying to snip that avenue of discussion right in the bud. Birkin took the hint and dropped the subject. He knew that Wesker’s passion for research was unquenchable, to say the least. Why he decided to take up his current position was beyond him. It seemed fun and all, sure, being like a spy or double agent of some sort. But it was all very un-Albert like, and Birkin hoped he had a good reason for it all.

 

They continued chatting for quite some time, and Birkin seemed calmer with each passing minute. His shoulders had finally released some of their tension and the volume of his voice had lowered to a reasonable tone. Birkin always joked about the presence of caffeine having the opposite effect on him than it would on most, but in truth, Wesker’s presence had a way of making him feel less manic. He always exerted a certain confidence, or arrogance in some cases, that made it seem as though he could conjure up all the world’s secrets in the palm of his hand. It was comforting having an ally like that on your side. Birkin was sincerely grateful to call Wesker his closest friend.

 

“You know he’s back, don’t you?” Birkin said abruptly, nervously rotating his mug of now lukewarm coffee. He was hesitant to bring up the subject, but this is why he came without a word of notice, after all.

 

“Dr. Marcus, you mean,” Wesker clarified. Birkin cringed at the sound of their not-so-late ex-supervisor’s name.

 

“I hardly know what to make of it. It’s been ten years.” Birkin said. Some color began to drain from his face.

 

“I’m well aware,” Wesker said simply.

 

“Don’t make it seem like you’re taking this so lightly. People don’t just come back from the dead.” Wesker noticed how unstable the mug was beginning to look and quickly plucked it from Birkin’s hand and set it to the side. Birkin did not seem to notice.

 

“In our profession, they seem to do it quite often,” Wesker said in a matter of fact tone.

 

“Not a joke, Al.”

 

“I wasn’t implying it to be one.” Wesker took note as the shaking returned to Birkin’s hands and his inability to make eye contact without having to quickly glance to both peripherals. Wesker now understood. This was fear. Pure, unadulterated fear.

 

“I meant to get into contact with you when I had acquired more information,” Wesker began, “but it would seem as though your untamable anxiety fueled you to find your own answers before I could provide them.”

 

Wesker had been contacted earlier that day by the head of the Spencer laboratory in the Arklay mountains about the contamination of T-virus in the labs. Upon further inspection of security clips, Wesker, to his aggravation, was able to make out the deranged face of Dr. James Marcus. Back from the dead after all these years. He seemed exceptionally younger, and Wesker could only begin to imagine what the Hell that was about. It was easy to suspect that the man was on a mission to enact his ultimate revenge or something like that. Unfortunately, his plan involved mutated sharks of all things. How excessive.

 

While Wesker spent an obligatory time brooding over this recent development, he had already begun forming plans to take care of the inconvenience of Dr. Marcus. If he were to come for Wesker and Birkin, it would be a foolish endeavor. However, Wesker was hardly in a position to be taking chances. From his unnatural movements and an extended smile that didn’t quite meet his wide, unblinking eyes, Wesker was willing to bet that their old boss had very little left to lose, sanity having clearly left its host long ago. He was unpredictable, and that made him dangerous.

 

“Things are going to shit,” Birkin stated, taking the last sip of coffee.

 

“Rest assured that you will be closely monitored,” Wesker said.

 

“Ah yes, that makes me feel better,” Birkin said sarcastically, “Watched over by the people who let it happen in the first place.” Birkin’s rubbed the bridge of his nose. For a moment, Wesker let a silence linger between them as he organized his thoughts. It was unfortunate that the pieces of this game were all coming into place so quickly. He was hoping to prolong his decisions for a preferable outcome, but that was idealistic, and he knew it. Decisions in times such as this were to be made swift and efficient. He just hoped his next one wouldn’t come back to bite.

 

“What if I were to offer you an ultimatum?” Wesker said, carefully gauging Birkin’s reaction. Birkin carefully nodded, silently urging him to continue. “As you so eloquently put it, things are going to shit. Umbrella’s days are numbered, and by the end of the year, I plan to take my assets and leave. I am extending the offer to you, William.” Wesker made an extended gesture with his hand that he hoped came off as welcoming. Birkin was shocked, to say the least, and then he looked confused and then vaguely shocked once more. Wesker wondered if he would start going through the stages of grief if he just sat there and waited long enough.

 

“I don’t understand,” Birkin said, shaking his head. Wesker cocked an eyebrow in question.

 

“We can buffer out the details now...or later. I have the time, for now,” Wesker offered, trying to hide the fact that he was itching to know his colleague’s answer, “We aren’t just going to up and move to Honolulu if that’s what you’re imagining. I’m in the works of securing our positions elsewhere.”

 

“Of course, you have it all figured out,” Birkin muttered. Wesker’s neutral expression began to falter. Perhaps introducing the offer so soon was a mistake.

 

“I trust you, Al, I do… But I can't. Not now,” Birkin explained. Wesker tried to hold in an exclamation of frustration. “Not without finishing G.” Birkin looked at his friend, genuinely apologetic.

 

“Very well then,” Wesker said, trying to contain his frustration with the situation, “The offer will remain open until it can't any longer.” Wesker was disappointed by this outcome, but the fact Birkin seemed to at least consider his proposal gave him hope. He wouldn't admit it out loud, but Birkin was truly a remarkable scientist, and Wesker had no doubt that research on the G-virus would be completed within a matter of months. He could work with that time frame.

 

Sensing that the point of their meeting had reached its close, Birkin set his empty mug on the desk and scooted back his chair.

 

“Well, it's late, and I’m sure you've had a long day,” Birkin said, raising from his chair. Wesker scoffed. The day had been a rightful pain in the ass, and there was still an hour or so of it left. “Thanks for the coffee, I'll try not to get tackled by your pet bear on my way out.”

 

“I'll see you out,” Wesker said, making a move to get up.

 

“That's awfully romantic of you, Al, but I think I can walk my way back to my car without assistance.” Wesker sighed and merely sat back down in response. Wesker couldn't understand the madman. One minute he was practically quaking at the idea of Marcus coming for him and in the next, he seemed to not think anything of it at all. Wesker hoped he realized that he would still have to watch his back, surveillance monitoring over him or no.

 

“Oh, and one last thing,” Birkin remembered, suddenly digging around in his lab coat pocket. When the item was retrieved, Birkin tossed it in the air towards Wesker. Wesker's eyes went wide as he flung himself on his desk to catch the vial in midair.

 

“Are you mad?!” Wesker yelled, gritting his teeth and immediately inspecting the vial for damage.

 

“Uh, yeah, think so. Details are in the email I sent you,” Birkin opened the door to Wesker’s office, letting in a loathsome amount of light from the other room, “Toodaloo,” Birkin waved his fingers at Wesker and then shut the door, leaving him sprawled across his desk, cradling the mysterious vial.

Wesker let out a grumble as he straightened himself and went to his window to watch. A little over a minute passed before he saw Birkin appear in the parking lot. Birkin looked around cautiously as though Dr. Marcus would pop out of the bushes at any moment and attack him with some other concoction of a genetically modified sea creature. Wesker watched on as Birkin got in his car, started the engine, and sped away out of sight. If Marcus didn't get to him first, his terrible driving would do him in in the meantime.

 

Leaving the window, Wesker decided he would look into the email Birkin had spoken about. The vial was merely labeled “Prototype” which was hardly telling. Upon walking his way over to his desk once again, he heard a crunch underneath his boot. He looked down to find the picture frame Birkin had carelessly dropped hours before.

 

He bent down and discovered it to be the photograph that was taken of S.T.A.R.S last summer after a successful mission. Wesker faintly smiled at the picture, reaching to pick up a piece of glass that had obscured his face. Upon impact, the sharp edge slid across his forefinger and stained the glass red. Wesker didn't so much as blink. The blood fell too quickly for Wesker to react, and the droplets quickly dribbled down the glass and splatted across his team’s faces. Wesker tsked.

 

“Well, that's unfortunate.” Wesker set his shattered frame and picture back on the shelf to deal with later. He stuck his injured forefinger to his lips, his tongue flicking over the cut multiple times. In his other hand, the dark liquid of the prototype glistened as he absentmindedly rolled the vial round and around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm thinking about updating once or twice a month. College and all, you know? Lemme know if you see any glaring inconsistencies within the chronology. It's quite extensive and I do my best to get things right, but you know, there's quite a bit of lore in Resident Evil. Lemme know how I did, dudes


End file.
